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THE WAVES
thrown sky-high. I step out on to the platform, grasping tightly
all that I possess – one bag.”
The sun rose. Bars of yellow and green fell on the shore,
gilding the ribs of the eaten-out boat and making the seaholly and its mailed leaves gleam blue as steel. Light almost
pierced the thin swift waves as they raced fan-shaped over
the beach. The girl who had shaken her head and made all
the jewels, the topaz, the aquamarine, the water-coloured jewels with sparks of fi re in them, dance, now bared her brows
and with wide-opened eyes drove a straight pathway over
the waves. Their quivering mackerel sparkling was darkened;
they massed themselves; their green hollows deepened and
darkened and might be traversed by shoals of wandering fi sh.
As they splashed and drew back they left a black rim of twigs
and cork on the shore and straws and sticks of wood, as if some
light shallop had foundered and burst its sides and the sailor
had swum to land and bounded up the cliff and left his frail
cargo to be washed ashore.
In the garden the birds that had sung erratically and spasmodically in the dawn on that tree, on that bush, now sang
together in chorus, shrill and sharp; now together, as if conscious of companionship, now alone as if to the pale blue sky.
They swerved, all in one fl ight, when the black cat moved
among the bushes, when the cook threw cinders on the ash
heap and startled them. Fear was in their song, and apprehension of pain, and joy to be snatched quickly now at this instant.
Also they sang emulously in the clear morning air, swerving
high over the elm tree, singing together as they chased each
other, escaping, pursuing, pecking each other as they turned
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VIRGINIA WOOLF
high in the air. And then tiring of pursuit and fl ight, lovelily
they came descending, delicately declining, dropped down and
sat silent on the tree, on the wall, with their bright eyes glancing, and their heads turned this way, that way; aware, awake;
intensely conscious of one thing, one object in particular.
Perhaps it was a snail shell, rising in the grass like a grey
cathedral, a swelling building burnt with dark rings and shadowed green by the grass. Or perhaps they saw the splendour of
the fl owers making a light of fl owing purple over the beds,
through which dark tunnels of purple shade were driven between the stalks. Or they fi xed their gaze on the small bright
apple leaves, dancing yet withheld, stiffl y sparkling among
the pink-tipped blossoms. Or they saw the rain drop on
the hedge, pendent but not falling, with a whole house bent in
it, and towering elms; or, gazing straight at the sun, their eyes
became gold beads.
Now glancing this side, that side, they looked deeper, beneath the fl owers, down the dark avenues into the unlit world
where the leaf rots and the fl ower has fallen. Then one of
them, beautifully darting, accurately alighting, spiked the soft,
monstrous body of the defenceless worm, pecked again and yet
again, and left it to fester. Down there among the roots where
the fl owers decayed, gusts of dead smells were wafted; drops
formed on the bloated sides of swollen things. The skin of rotten fruit broke, and matter oozed too thick to run. Yellow excretions were exuded by slugs, and now and again an amorphous
body with a head at either end swayed slowly from side to side.
The gold-eyed birds darting in between the leaves observed
62
THE WAVES
that purulence, that wetness, quizzically. Now and then they
plunged the tips of their beaks savagely into the sticky mixture.
Now, too, the rising sun came in at the window, touching
the red- edged curtain, and began to bring out circles and lines.
Now in the growing light its whiteness settled in the plate;
the blade condensed its gleam. Chairs and cupboards loomed
behind so that though each was separate they seemed inextricably involved. The looking-glass whitened its pool upon
the wall. The real fl ower on the window-sill was attended
by a phantom fl ower. Yet the phantom was part of the fl ower,
for when a bud broke free the paler fl ower in the glass opened
a bud too.
The wind rose. The waves drummed on the shore, like
turbaned warriors, like turbaned men with poisoned assegais
who, whirling their arms on high, advance upon the feeding
fl ocks, the white sheep.
“The complexity of things becomes more close,” said Bernard, “here at college, where the stir and pressure of life are
so extreme, where the excitement of mere living becomes
daily more urgent. Every hour something new is unburied in
the great bran pie. What am I? I ask. This? No, I am that. Especially now, when I have left a room, and people talking, and
the stone fl ags ring out with my solitary footsteps, and I behold
the moon rising, sublimely, indifferently, over the ancient chapel – then it becomes clear that I am not one and simple, but
complex and many. Bernard, in public, bubbles; in private, is
secretive. That is what they do not understand, for they are now
undoubtedly discussing me, saying I escape them, am evasive.
They do not understand that I have to effect different transi-
63
VIRGINIA WOOLF
tions; have to cover the entrances and exits of several different
men who alternately act their parts as Bernard. I am abnormally aware of circumstances. I can never read a book in a railway carriage without asking, Is he a builder? Is she unhappy?
I was aware today acutely that poor Simes, with his pimple,
was feeling, how bitterly, that his chance of making a good impression upon Billy Jackson was remote. Feeling this painfully,
I invited him to dinner with ardour. This he will attribute to
an admiration which is not mine. That is true. But “joined to
the sensibility of a woman” (I am here quoting my own biographer) “Bernard possessed the logical sobriety of a man.” Now
people who make a single impression, and that, in the main,
a good one (for there seems to be a virtue in simplicity), are
those who keep their equilibrium in mid-stream. (I instantly
see fi sh with their noses one way, the stream rushing past another.) Canon, Lycett, Peters, Hawkins, Larpent, Neville – all
fi sh in mid-stream. But you understand, YOU, my self, who always comes at a call (that would be a harrowing experience to
call and for no one to come; that would make the midnight
hollow, and explains the expression of old men in clubs – they
have given up calling for a self who does not come), you understand that I am only superfi cially represented by what I was
saying tonight. Underneath, and, at the moment when I am
most disparate, I am also integrated. I sympathize effusively;
I also sit, like a toad in a hole, receiving with perfect coldness
whatever comes. Very few of you who are now discussing me
have the double capacity to feel, to reason. Lycett, you see, believes in running after hares; Hawkins has spent a most industrious afternoon in the library. Peters has his young lady at
64
THE WAVES
the circulating library. You are all engaged, involved, drawn
in, and absolutely energized to the top of your bent – all save
Neville, whose mind is far too complex to be roused by any
single activity. I also am too complex. In my case something
remains fl oating, unattached.
“Now, as a proof of my susceptibility to atmosphere,
here, as I come into my room, and turn on the light, and see
the sheet of paper, the table, my gown lying negligently over
the back of the chair, I feel that I am that dashing yet refl ective
man, that bold and deleterious fi gure, who, lightly throwing
off his cloak, seizes his pen and at once fl ings off the following
letter to the girl with whom he is passionately in love.
“Yes, all is propitious. I am now in the mood. I can write
the letter straight off which I have begun ever so many times.
I have just come in; I have fl ung down my hat and my stick;
I am writing the fi rst thing that comes into my head without
troubling to put the paper straight. It is going to be a brilliant
sketch which, she must think, was written without a pause,
without an erasure. Look how unformed the letters are – there
is a careless blot. All must be sacrifi ced to speed and carelessness. I will write a quick, running, small hand, exaggerating
the down stroke of the “y” and crossing the “t” thus – with
a dash. The date shall be only Tuesday, the 17th, and then
a question mark. But also I must give her the impression that
though he – for this is not myself – is writing in such an offhand, such a slap-dash way, there is some subtle suggestion of
intimacy and respect. I must allude to talks we have had together – bring back some remembered scene. But I must seem to
her (this is very important) to be passing from thing to thing
65
VIRGINIA WOOLF
with the greatest ease in the world. I shall pass from the service
for the man who was drowned (I have a phrase for that) to Mrs
Moffat and her sayings (I have a note of them), and so to some
refl ections apparently casual but full of profundity (profound
criticism is often written casually) about some book I have
been reading, some out-of-the-way book. I want her to say as
she brushes her hair or puts out the candle, “Where did I read
that? Oh, in Bernard’s letter.” It is the speed, the hot, molten effect, the laval fl ow of sentence into sentence that I need. Who
am I thinking of? Byron of course. I am, in some ways, like Byron. Perhaps a sip of Byron will help to put me in the vein. Let
me read a page. No; this is dull; this is scrappy. This is rather
too formal. Now I am getting the hang of it. Now I am getting his beat into my brain (the rhythm is the main thing in
writing). Now, without pausing I will begin, on the very lilt of
the stroke – .
“Yet it falls fl at. It peters out. I cannot get up steam
enough to carry me over the transition. My true self breaks
off from my assumed. And if I begin to re-write it, she will feel
“Bernard is posing as a literary man; Bernard is thinking of his
biographer” (which is true). No, I will write the letter tomorrow directly after breakfast.
“Now let me fi ll my mind with imaginary pictures. Let me
suppose that I am asked to stay at Restover, King’s Laughton,
Station Langley three miles. I arrive in the dusk. In the courtyard of this shabby but distinguished house there are two
or three dogs, slinking, long-legged. There are faded rugs in
the hall; a military gentleman smokes a pipe as he paces
the terrace. The note is of distinguished poverty and military
66
THE WAVES
connections. A hunter’s hoof on the writing table – a favourite horse. “Do you ride?” “Yes, sir, I love riding.” “My daughter
expects us in the drawing- room.” My heart pounds against my
ribs. She is standing at a low table; she has been hunting; she
munches sandwiches like a tomboy. I make a fairly good impression on the Colonel. I am not too clever, he thinks; I am not
too raw. Also I play billiards. Then the nice maid who has been
with the family thirty years comes in. The pattern on the plates
is of Oriental long-tailed birds. Her mother’s portrait in muslin hangs over the fi replace. I can sketch the surroundings up
to a point with extraordinary ease. But can I make it work? Can
I hear her voice – the precise tone with which, when we are
alone, she says “Bernard”? And then what next?
“The truth is that I need the stimulus of other people.
Alone, over my dead fi re, I tend to see the thin places in my
own stories. The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefi nitely, imagining. He would not integrate, as I do. He would not have this devastating sense of grey
ashes in a burnt-out grate. Some blind fl aps in my eyes. Everything becomes impervious. I cease to invent.
“Let me recollect. It has been on the whole a good day.
The drop that forms on the roof of the soul in the evening is
round, many- coloured. There was the morning, fi ne; there
was the afternoon, walking. I like views of spires across grey
fi elds. I like glimpses between people’s shoulders. Things kept
popping into my head. I was imaginative, subtle. After dinner,
I was dramatic. I put into concrete form many things that we
had dimly observed about our common friends. I made my
transitions easily. But now let me ask myself the fi nal ques-
67
VIRGINIA WOOLF
tion, as I sit over this grey fi re, with its naked promontories of
black coal, which of these people am I? It depends so much
upon the room. When I say to myself, “Bernard”, who comes?
A faithful, sardonic man, disillusioned, but not embittered.
A man of no particular age or calling. Myself, merely. It is he
who now takes the poker and rattles the cinders so that they
fall in showers through the grate. “Lord,” he says to himself,
watching them fall, “what a pother!” and then he adds, lugubriously, but with some sense of consolation, “Mrs Moffat will
come and sweep it all up – ” I fancy I shall often repeat to myself that phrase, as I rattle and bang through life, hitting fi rst
this side of the carriage, then the other, “Oh, yes, Mrs Moffat
will come and sweep it all up.” And so to bed.”
“In a world which contains the present moment,” said Neville, “why discriminate? Nothing should be named lest by so
doing we change it. Let it exist, this bank, this beauty, and I, for
one instant, steeped in pleasure. The sun is hot. I see the river.
I see trees specked and burnt in the autumn sunlight. Boats
fl oat past, through the red, through the green. Far away a bell
tolls, but not for death. There are bells that ring for life. A leaf
falls, from joy. Oh, I am in love with life! Look how the willow shoots its fi ne sprays into the air! Look how through them
a boat passes, fi lled with indolent, with unconscious, with powerful young men. They are listening to the gramophone; they
are eating fruit out of paper bags. They are tossing the skins of
bananas, which then sink eel-like, into the river. All they do is
beautiful. There are cruets behind them and ornaments; their
rooms are full of oars and oleographs but they have turned
all to beauty. That boat passes under the bridge. Another
68
THE WAVES
comes. Then another. That is Percival, lounging on the cushions, monolithic, in giant repose. No, it is only one of his satellites, imitating his monolithic, his giant repose. He alone
is unconscious of their tricks, and when he catches them at
it he buffets them good-humouredly with a blow of his paw.
They, too, have passed under the bridge through “the fountains of the pendant trees’, through its fi ne strokes of yellow
and plum colour. The breeze stirs; the curtain quivers; I see behind the leaves the grave, yet eternally joyous buildings, which
seem porous, not gravid; light, though set so immemorially on
the ancient turf. Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm;
words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests,
and fall and rise, and fall and rise again. I am a poet, yes. Surely
I am a great poet. Boats and youth passing and distant trees,
“the falling fountains of the pendant trees”. I see it all. I feel
it all. I am inspired. My eyes fi ll with tears. Yet even as I feel
this, I lash my frenzy higher and higher. It foams. It becomes
artifi cial, insincere. Words and words and words, how they gallop – how they lash their long manes and tails, but for some
fault in me I cannot give myself to their backs; I cannot fl y with
them, scattering women and string bags. There is some fl aw in
me – some fatal hesitancy, which, if I pass it over, turns to foam
and falsity. Yet it is incredible that I should not be a great poet.
What did I write last night if it was not good poetry? Am I too
fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes,
or how to measure and name and count out the grains that
make me what I am.
“Something now leaves me; something goes from me to
meet that fi gure who is coming, and assures me that I know
69
VIRGINIA WOOLF
him before I see who it is. How curiously one is changed by
the addition, even at a distance, of a friend. How useful an offi ce one’s friends perform when they recall us. Yet how painful to be recalled, to be mitigated, to have one’s self adulterated, mixed up, become part of another. As he approaches
I become not myself but Neville mixed with somebody – with
whom? – with Bernard? Yes, it is Bernard, and it is to Bernard
that I shall put the question, Who am I?”
“How strange,” said Bernard, “the willow looks seen together. I was Byron, and the tree was Byron’s tree, lachrymose,
down- showering, lamenting. Now that we look at the tree together, it has a combined look, each branch distinct, and I will
tell you what I feel, under the compulsion of your clarity.
“I feel your disapproval, I feel your force. I become, with
you, an untidy, an impulsive human being whose bandanna
handkerchief is for ever stained with the grease of crumpets.
Yes, I hold Gray’s Elegy in one hand; with the other I scoop
out the bottom crumpet, that has absorbed all the butter and
sticks to the bottom of the plate. This offends you; I feel your
distress acutely. Inspired by it and anxious to regain your good
opinion, I proceed to tell you how I have just pulled Percival
out of bed; I describe his slippers, his table, his guttered candle; his surly and complaining accents as I pull the blankets
off his feet; he burrowing like some vast cocoon meanwhile.
I describe all this in such a way that, centred as you are upon
some private sorrow (for a hooded shape presides over our encounter), you give way, you laugh and delight in me. My charm
and fl ow of language, unexpected and spontaneous as it is, delights me too. I am astonished, as I draw the veil off things with
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